


Cacophony

by Scullysfan



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scullysfan/pseuds/Scullysfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes silence is the loudest sound one will ever hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cacophony

In one moment, silence closed over her like murky river water. Until that pregnant second gave birth to never-ending hours, she had no idea silence could be loud, threatening to deafen her with its clatter.

Screeching tires. The squeak of sports cars' horns clashing with the bellow of diesel engines.

The sound of her own breath being ripped from her lungs.

The sickening thump made as killing machine met human.

Wailing sirens, barking bulldogs costumed in the blue of D.C.'s finest, voices shooting vital signs like spitfire -- dissonant sounds drowned out by a deluge of silence.

Rumbling wheels speeding on asphalt accompanied the strained tune of a creaking stretcher. Hurried hands tore open plastic containers of sterile gauze, even as instruments fell clanking to the floor, cymbals in a bizarre score.

Beeping a warning, the ambulance backed into the emergency department's unloading bay at George Washington University Hospital. Bodies and equipment and gurney disappeared into still more bodies, equipment, and gurneys -- the noise of a new arrival swallowed up by even more raucous sounds.

She heard none of it.

Monotone voices instructed signatures to be placed Papers rustled like crackling leaves in an October breeze. A stapler married the pages with a loud blessing. Humming, the copy machine impressed insurance cards onto the memory of cheap paper.

The carpeted waiting area dulled clomping footsteps, though they would have gone unnoticed anyway. Jerry Springer's guests screeched from an ancient television perched high in the corner of the room. Vinyl chairs and bare legs made an obscene pair. In the middle of it all, a hulk of a man wept like a child -- great gasping sobs that masked the quiet tears of the teenagers surrounding him and the murmurs of an emergency resident offering comfort he did not have to give.

And still silence reigned.

It refused to abdicate its throne even for a head of state -- head of neurology, that is. Her voice, brisk and confident, broke through the racket in the waiting room.  

"I'm Dr. Pat Bank. Let me get you caught up on where we stand."

Suddenly a hailstorm of ugly words fell on ineffectual ears, seeping only into a brain that understood them all too well.

"...relatively insignificant internal injuries... broken ribs... bruised kidney... don't anticipate problems there. However... moderate to severe cerebral contusion... CT scan... swelling in the motor cortex... may experience weakness.... know more when... coma... hours or days... have to wait."

Following those unwelcome words, thirty more minutes of eternity and a lonely walk down freshly waxed hallways brought silence to dwell in a tiny curtained-off cubicle in an intensive care unit that rivaled the activity and clamor of Dulles on Memorial Day weekend.

Hours passed serenaded by the steady beep sounding out each coveted heartbeat, by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes rushing to the death rattle gurgling up from the throat of the man on the other side of the curtain. Shouts for epinephrine, an eighteen gauge needle... the grim, flat pronouncement of an expiration -- sounds that should have disturbed, if not the patient lying in this cubicle, at least the loved one sitting by the bedside.

Closed ears refused to hear such harshness, to pick up insignificant sounds. They were tuned to one frequency and one alone.

Sitting there beside the bed, one small hand pressed against a larger, limp one, eyes flitting from heart monitor to yet another device measuring intracranial pressure to a face lax in unwilling sleep, seeking ears sought the only sound that could possibly break the silence smothering Dana Scully.

Fox Mulder's voice.

 

 

_~~~~~~~~_

Dr. Bank stopped by frequently to check on her patient, reassuring Scully that the areas of the brain controlling respiration and cardiac function had been unaffected, so Mulder had no need for a respirator. They were administering medication to hopefully decrease the swelling. A close eye was being kept on his output, just in case that bruised kidney proved to be more of a problem than they'd originally thought. Everything that could be done, had been. All they had to do was wait for him to come out of it.

Scully let Dr. Bank's final words wash over her."We just have to wait for him to come out of it."  And he =would= come out of it.

Leaning forward to rest her elbows on the bed alongside Mulder's hip, she brushed fingertips back and forth across his right hand, carefully skirting the tiny needle taped there.

"Mulder?"

If his voice was the only sound capable of shattering her silence, perhaps the reverse was true. Determined to do better than her first shaky whisper, she tried again.

"Mulder, I know you're in there. It's time for you to come out now. Are you..."

The beginnings of a one-sided interrogation were interrupted by the arrival of one of his nurses. Clad in deep purple scrubs, Barbara had already proven herself to be quick of wit and action, straight-talking and blessedly unobtrusive. Moving briskly, she replaced an empty bottle of IV meds with a full one, and with a check of the needle in the hand Scully held and a pat to her shoulder, she was gone.

Though she didn't expect anyone to come in again right away, she still stood up and leaned over, putting her mouth close to his ear, unwilling for him to think she had words for anyone but him.

"Mulder... I have a proposition to make to you. You and I both know we're equally reluctant to let each other have the last word. Now don't laugh at me in there. But I promise, if you will hurry and wake up, I'll let you have the last word in what we were discussing before you..."

She cleared her throat, trying to drive away the tears gathering in it. ".... just before. You hear me? I'll listen this time. But you'd better hurry. This isn't an unlimited offer."

Her lips curving into a soft smile, she turned her head until she could press them to his cheek, sealing her promise with a kiss. Bargain made, she sat back in the chair, his hand still trapped in hers and fervently wished for him to take her up on it.

The last word. For once, she would willingly let him have it -- anything to erase from her memory the foreshadowing exclamation that fired from her mouth, hitting its target seconds before metal met flesh and bone.  "Shut up, Mulder!"

They had been arguing, each convinced of the validity of their own positions. Despite their disagreement, he had been in a good mood -- trying to tease her out of her bad one, inadvertently pushing all the wrong buttons until something snapped. Her response had been one common to anyone growing up with several siblings, the search for peace and quiet ever elusive. It was said without thinking -- tinged with a modicum of amusement and soaked in exasperation.  "Shut up, Mulder!"

She had ordered his silence, and he had turned back to respond, his grin fading even as his long legs carried him off the curb ahead of her. Distracted by her words, he'd never seen the speeding BMW, but she had -- she had watched it slam into him, throwing his body up onto the hood of the car from where it slid onto the street, his head snapping back from its hard impact.

The memory sent an involuntary tremor through her body, and disentangling her hand from his, she stood up, deciding that inactivity invited unwanted scenes into her mind.

So she paced, and she straightened the already straight sheet, stopping now and then to rest her hand on him -- to feel the warmth of his leg under the palm of her hand, to grasp a muscled forearm, to let her fingernails rasp over the stubble on his jaw. And she recalled times when hearing him had superseded even their usual methods of communication. The power of touch and the subtlety of words exchanged through expressive eyes were all well and good, but sometimes even she craved reassurance that her world with him wasn't a silent one.

Even the little things once barely noticed sparked a new appreciation and a desire to hear them again:

The crack of a splintering sunflower seed as he rolled it between his teeth -- stray shells in her carpet would seem a small price to pay right now.

Breathing labored from a brutal run -- sweat stains could be washed from couch cushion covers.

Shouts of triumph for every hard-earned Knicks basket -- she could read the journal article when the game was over.

Guttural groans voiced into the side of her neck, his face pressed there as his lower body pumped erratically into hers -- soon they would become a whispered litany of encouragement as his fingers brought her to the same completion.

Lightly rubbing a Q-tip soaked in a lemony solution across his lips, she remembered the first words that mouth ever spoke to her.

_"_ Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted!"

Just a little arrogant, and very determined to frighten her away, he had amused and intrigued her with tales of alien abductions and had touched her with the story of a lost little girl, told in a low voice to candlelight dancing with rivulets of rain on the window.

For seven years his voice had sometimes carried wonder, sometimes defeat, but always a regard for her. A regard composed of the melody of respect, need, and love, played by a flawed but equally loved instrument.

And she missed it. The silence caused by a voiceless Mulder had her mirthlessly wondering how long it took to learn sign language.

Tossing the cotton swab in the wastebasket, Scully carefully lowered the guard rail at the side of his bed and gingerly perched on the mattress. She braced one arm on the other side of his body and leaned toward him. "Mulder, when you wake up and feel well enough, I want you to tell me another story. I want it to be just like last night. Remember?"

_~~~~~~~~_

Working overtime against the unseasonably muggy heat, Scully's air conditioner had made her bedroom a chilly contrast to the outdoors. Nestled under a couple of blankets and one of her grandmother's quilts, she breathed deeply of the crisp air outside their cocoon as she scooted more fully into the nook Mulder's body formed behind her.

The long arm draped over her waist tightened in a soft squeeze as he sighed and snuffled into the hair behind her ear. She'd come to recognize the sound as evidence of contentment and not for the first time, it piqued her curiosity.

"Mulder..." Her question wasn't a whisper, knowing it was his habit to lie awake well after she had fallen asleep. "...did you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?"

His response carried equal parts confusion and amusement, with no answer forthcoming, "What?"

"A teddy bear. You know -- Winnie the Pooh, Paddington... soft and cuddly, four limbs, and a snout."

"Is there any special reason you're inquiring about my childhood companions?" Lightly, as though hardly at all, he skimmed the pads of his fingers over the baby soft skin of her forearm where it lay on the bed.

Undeterred by the soothing distraction, she pressed on. "It's just... I've noticed a fondness for holding me this way." She shrugged. "Seems like something you might have picked up with the assistance of a stuffed animal."

His silence sparked the dawning of another revelation. "Or was the companion of the living, breathing variety?"

"No! No..." Kisses dropped along the side of her face dulled his sharp retort. "... his name was Theodore, and I think he kept me sane."

Wrapped in his arms, she let his low, husky voice take her on a halting trip back to his twelfth year as he told her of Theodore. A light brown, potbellied stuffed bear whose paws sported worn spots from being held by the sticky hands of a younger sister. She had named him Theodore because that was . Hardly a night passed that didn't find her curled around him, drawing on the security only a child can find in an inanimate object.

Scully strained to hear, Mulder's voice dropping to barely a whisper as he spoke of the night Theodore lay cold and abandoned in his owner's small bed. He had proven to be false security after all.

A gentle rocking accompanied the story of a young boy, left feeling like so much false security himself, who every night for months afterwards clutched a voiceless bear. Falling asleep to the clink of ice cubes against glass, the muffled shouts of responsibility and blame and betrayal, he woke early to return Theodore to the pink and white eyelet bedspread -- twelve year old boys didn't cling to their sister's teddy bear.

He didn't say whatever became of the bear, his voice trailing off in remembrance and sleep. And she who was twice lost and found lay awake, feeling both protected and protective.

_~~~~~~~~~_

_"_ Or maybe I'll tell you a story next time, Mulder." She grazed his lips with her own, tasting him beneath the tangy lemon. "Did you know I had a real rabbit when I was about Emily's age?"

Intent on leaving no inch of his face devoid of her touch, she didn't hear Barbara return until she spoke.

"Dr. Scully? It's time to turn him. Why don't you help me?"

Carefully arranging the endless tubes and wires, together she and Barbara rolled Mulder to rest on his left side, conveniently not the one with the broken ribs and bruised kidney. As Scully gathered the sheet to draw it back over him, Barbara moved his legs into a bent-at-the-knees position.

At her quizzical look, the solidly built nurse with the salt and pepper hair explained, "Having his legs straight pulls on his back -- this should be more comfortable for him."

Helping Scully settle the sheet over his still form, she patted his hand and said, "There we go. If you'll stand right there for a minute, I'll get something to put behind him so he doesn't roll back..."

"That's okay. You don't need to get anything -- I...I won't let him fall," asserted Scully.

Whether it was due to the earnestness in her voice or the plea in her eyes, she couldn't tell, but as Barbara made her way around the bed, hardly slowing down to rest her hand on Scully's shoulder as she left, she threw a good-natured command over her shoulder.

"Okay, but don't let Dr. Bank catch you!"

Grinning to herself, she kept one hand on his back as she toed off her shoes and cautiously sat on the bed, swinging her legs up so she could lie down. Tunneling the arm closest to the bed between his neck and the pillow, she wrapped her other arm high across his chest, making sure to avoid tender ribs. She rested her forehead against the back of his neck and fitted her hips to his, the tops of her feet grazing the backs of his calves.

Resting that way, holding him securely in her arms, the silence ceased to be as frightening -- a peace washed over her, bringing lassitude in its wake. The rhythmic beat of his heart against her chest kept time with its electronic counterpart, laughter rang from the nurses' desk -- Barbara's rising above all others, the soft and confident prayers of the tall chaplain with the sweet, sympathetic face on the other side of the curtain all conspired to lull Scully further into the soundless void in which she had existed for  
untold hours.

Had her whole being not been on alert for it, she might have dozed on, but slumber was no match for the faint rasp of silence's disintegration.

"Scu...Scully... did you... did you have a teddy bear... when you were little?"

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This particular story was sparked by Scully's question ("Mulder, did you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?") popping into my head while I was reading a wonderful little book sent to me by my best friend. "The Art of Spooning" is sweet and funny and will tell you everything you ever wanted to know about spooning. Scully's playful, but exasperated "Mulder, shut up!" in "Trevor" made me wonder how she would feel if those were the last words she ever said to him -- no matter how little ill intent they carried, I could imagine her wishing them back.


End file.
